


Breve / Cake in a Cup / Crema

by shadesofbrixton



Series: Theme and Variations: The AU Collection [2]
Category: A Knight's Tale (2001)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-07-24
Updated: 2005-07-24
Packaged: 2019-10-09 11:45:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17406329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadesofbrixton/pseuds/shadesofbrixton
Summary: The requisite modern-day coffee shop AU. Geoff is a writer who drives a Vespa and does the crossword. Wat works too much.





	1. Chapter 1

**Part One: Breve**

Geoff thinks it's possible he's been coming to the café too often when, upon his arrival, the man has his espresso waiting for him. It's in a china cup this time, petite, barely an egg cup filled with coffee, dark and swirling and a caramel-colored brilliant crème on the top. Geoff doesn't know much about coffee, but he knows what's good and what isn't, because he drinks far too much of it, and he knows this is good coffee.  
  
He doesn't think much of it, just trucks the tiny china cup over to the milk bar and sugars the hell out of it – raw sugar, big hunks of crystallized sugar that will collect in the bottom and be scraped out by the pad of his finger and rubbed along in a most unhealthy manner on his gums as he reads his newspaper. He sits at the counter, nearest the corner for the light mounted on the wall, and fiddles with his favorite blue pen.   
  
When he is finished, he leaves the cup, completely cleaned, and a crumpled dollar bill, for the owner.  
  


* * *

  
  
"Sir."  
  
Wat looks up, under the fall of his hair, at one of his serving girls. She brandishes a quarter-folded newspaper, and a half filled crossword puzzle.   
  
"Should I throw it away?" she asks.  
  
Wat grunts, nods at the wastebasket, and doesn't look up again until he hears the impact of paper against plastic. Then he goes back to balancing his books in the large green ledger, and doesn't stop until all the chairs are put up like a field of spiny hedgehogs across the café.  
  


* * *

  
  
  
The problem with the crossword puzzle is that Geoff's been working on it since he was twenty-two – one big crossword puzzle out of  _The London Mail_. Like all frequenters of the puzzle, Geoff has learned many things about it – including the odd, obscure clues that repeat themselves over and over and over again. He never allows himself to look at yesterday's answers. It feels, oddly enough, like cheating.  
  
He knows things about the puzzle, though. He knows that it gets harder from Monday to Sunday, and that he can feel as smart as Dante at the beginning of the week and have it all crumbled to hell by the weekend, with the impossibility of the Sunday puzzle. Sundays, he stays longer, sometimes into the afternoon, and sucks down another double-shot if the puzzle is that hard. He always leaves the puzzle when he is done, choosing to make a clean breast of it.  
  
It's his daydream that someone picks it up when he is finished, and attempts to complete the puzzle after him, and finds none of his filled in squares are incorrect.   
  
The red-haired man behind the counter paces the length, checking first the till and then the coffee instruments, the espresso grinders and the steaming wands. Geoff props his chin on his hand and watches idly as the man uses quick, efficient movements to clean. The pastry case, the food preparation area behind him. It's all done with the sort of economy of style that comes with familiarity and confidence.   
  
Geoff is so busy watching, in fact, that he doesn't notice the man is staring back at him until it's gone far beyond propriety, and he coughs, awkwardly. The man is frowning at him, his oddly shaped face pulling into a sort of narrow flex, and he wipes his hands roughly on the edge of the green apron that's tied around his waist. Geoff has never seen him without it, and if he didn't sit at the end of the counter – and thus able to see the length of the inside of it, all the secret parts that most customers shouldn't be able to – he would've thought the man legless.  
  
"Is there something I can get you?" The man has taken a step closer, professional concern on his face. His hands are still wringing rhythmically in the apron, though they appear to be dry. He drops the corner of cloth as Geoff notices this, and when Geoff looks back, the man looks decidedly unhappy. About what, Geoff has no idea.  
  
"Your name, actually," Geoff says, clicking his pen in and out on the counter top, scratching odd little blind doodles on the newsprint.   
  
The man blinks. "What?"  
  
"Your name," Geoff says, with a winning smile. "I – it's ridiculous, I'm sorry. But I come in here all the time, and I see you all the time, and your staff wears name tags – I'm guessing they're your staff, since you're the only one who doesn't wear a name tag, and I'd like to know your name. Because this place is fantastic, and – I'd like to know it." Somehow, the way he speaks, and his expression, keeps the words from coming out lamely.   
  
"No," the man says, and Geoff feels something like confusion begin to well before he goes on. "That's my name. Wat."  
  
It is Geoff's turn to blink. And then he breaks out another smile. "Oh! I – I'm sorry, that's terribly – " Shaking his head and rolling his eyes at himself, he drops the pen to extend a hand. "Geoffrey Chaucer. Pleasure."  
  
Wat, still frowning, tentatively meets his grip, and shakes, once, before dropping the hand. "Well. Now we can stop calling you double espresso."   
  
Geoff laughs. "I have a name?"  
  
"All the regulars do." Wat shrugs, and looks down at the crossword. "Studio," he says, and points to a blank that has been troubling Geoff for a good quarter of an hour. And then he walks away, hands back in the corner of his apron, as though he is scrubbing off anything Geoff could have given him.  
  
"Huh," Geoff says, looking after him, and then again when he looks at the page. "Huh." But the word fits, and he dutifully fills it in with his careful block lettering.  
  


* * *

  
  
Some days – rare days – he doesn't come in.  
  
It usually isn't until around noon that Wat realizes the loss. And then some other patron finds their way into the one inconvenient seat at the counter – the one Wat has merely provided a chair for on the off-chance that the establishment has become that crowded – and he is through writing the customer's tab up before he realizes that it is the entirely wrong customer.  
  
That doesn't account for the one day that Wat doesn't come into the café – Tuesdays, the entire place shuts down, because even privately owned bistros need their own hours off sometimes. But aside from the odd weekday off, Wat sees him every day. And if he doesn't come, something feels off.  
  
Except that in he strolls, happy as a clam, the next day – as though nothing is wrong. As if nothing has gone awry at all, as though there needn't anything to be worried over.   
  
And soon enough, Wat manages to notice the pattern – the one day or so that he disappears, the next day he arrives without the crossword. He totes something else with him instead, a book wrapped in black leather that looks soft to the touch. It's an expensive sort of book, Wat knows, and once he understands the pattern he makes extra sure to make the end of the counter is free of any debris or cup rings before he takes his seat, so that the book won't be in any danger.  
  
Mostly, Wat keeps to himself. Sometimes, when he comes close enough, he can make out the scribbling that the man has been working on, or the half-filled in crossword. Sometimes, he thinks he might be able to fill in a word or two himself.  
  
Since the man has introduced himself – Geoffrey Chaucer, Wat tries to correct himself, but can't seem to ease the familiarity into his brain, a nice proper British name – Wat figures it would probably be alright to give him more than a cursory eye contact now and again.   
  
He tries a nod one day, and Chaucer – the writer – the man, anyway, seems to miss it or ignore it, and Wat turns back to the cake he's icing and doesn't look again, until nothing remains but the folded newspaper and the empty white china.  
  


* * *

  
  
There's something about Wat's sleeves that Geoff can't stop staring at. He doesn't realize it until a few weeks later, when he's rubbing at his bottom lip, his brow furrowed, trying to think of just the right word, and he realizes he's got his eyes latched on the slice of forearm that the café owner allowed to be visible at the bottom of the rolled-up sleeves of the white button-down that hides under the half apron.   
  
Once he realizes he's staring and that Wat hasn't noticed yet, Geoff lets his gaze roam a little freer. Strong hands, wrapped in a rag, wrenching the dampness out of a mug. A nice neck, really, is what makes Geoff's eyebrows go up, and he lets slip a little contemplative sound. And that bizarre frazzled sunburn of a hair color, and the freckles that disappear down into his collar…  
  
Geoff frowns at himself, and slams his eyes back onto the page. He's come here to try and work – it's one of the reasons he likes the place so much, he can actually get work done here, and ogling the owner isn't going to help his progress much.  
  
On the other hand. He raises his gaze again, and notices Wat glancing in his direction openly, head tilted, trying to figure out if he needs anything, Geoff guesses. He reaches for his cup and, eyes drifting over the rest of the café, takes a sip. Wat goes to accost another customer, and Geoff sighs at himself.  
  
Giving himself a fantastic view of the man's ass really isn't the way to make himself focus, he berates himself as he watches Wat work. Nevertheless, it really is quite a fantastic view, and it takes a few more minutes of watching Wat rearrange the pastry case to more prominently display the lunch selection before he manages to look away to get some proper work done.   
  
It's some time later – well into the afternoon, and he certainly hadn't meant to stay that long, but it had been time well spent, in the end – when Wat approaches him, and nods at his cup. "I'll just collect that."  
  
"Thank you," Geoff says, and it comes out apologetic. He pushes the cup toward the man and then stops, his fingers still on the edge, and it makes Wat look up at him. "Would you let me buy you a cup of coffee some time?"  
  
Wat looks at him as though he's trying to figure out the joke, and his face darkens as he can only find sincerity in Geoff's own. "What do you mean?"  
  
The nervous flutter inside Geoff's gut, not helped at all by the acidic, strong coffee that has yet to be dulled by any sort of proper food, is hidden behind his expression. "Well," he wheedles, and gestures with his hand. "I enjoy this place. And clearly you must as well, or you wouldn't have kept it in business for so long. So I'd like to buy you a cup of coffee, yes. It's quite good, you know." He sees the confused expression on Wat's face. "It doesn't have to be today," he adds, a last ditch effort.  
  
Wat is still watching him with suspicion, so Geoff lets go of the cup, pulls his hands back into his own territory. Wat snatches it up to his chest, holding it as a very small and inadequate protective barrier between them. "Fine," he allows, and then streaks away.  
  
Geoff doesn't get a glance from him for the rest of the day, and, discouraged but not disappointed, leaves shortly thereafter.  
  


* * *

  
  
The next day is Tuesday, and it is the longest day Wat has ever spent away from the restaurant. He is almost tempted to go in and open the store anyway, but he knows that Geoff would have no way of knowing it was open, and forces himself to stay where he is. He spends the day gardening, and takes his dog for a walk, and watches television in the evening but can't settle on any one program to watch.  
  
The day after that, he's so anxious that he opens the café thirty minutes early.  
  
Wat spends the entire day having small heart attacks every time the bell rings for the opening of the door. It upsets him that he has this reaction – he hasn't thought of the man at all in this context before, this odd friendship-or-something context, and now all he can think of are the impossibly long legs that look regal even in old filthy denims, and the graceful cut of the sweaters that Geoff seems to favor, and the way he sucks on his fingers when his coffee is done.   
  
Wat tries not to think about the bittersweet coffee-sugar taste that those fingers would hold, and mostly fails.  
  
Geoff doesn't come in all day.  
  


* * *

  
  
Sometimes, Geoff loses track of the days. The only thing that distinguishes the passing of time for him, when he's writing, is the fact that he's run out of clean clothes. One day, it seems, they are in a neat and tidy stacked pile on the washing machine. The next, they are scattered all over the floor of his flat, and he must sniff at them to see what is still adequate to be worn in public.   
  
But he knows as soon as he comes into the café that something is wrong beyond the fact that he's worn dirty clothes. He doesn't have more than a foot in the door, hand still on the glass, when Wat looks at him, his face going from blank to stormy in the space of a second, Geoff suddenly realizes that whatever this is, it will be much, much more than a cup of coffee.  
  
Before he has time to process this thought at all, Wat is gone, storming into the back room, leaving the tall brunette girl with the kind face to deal with the rest of the customers.  
  
Geoff eases out of the café carefully, lets the door shut silently behind him, and goes to the park to think.   
  
The rest of the day, he can't manage to write a thing.  
  


* * *

  
  
It's Saturday before Wat sees him again, and the days in between have all but killed him, and for the life of him he can't figure out  _why_. He doesn't understand why it should bother him so much, that the chair by the wall should be filled with some other customer's graceless bulk, or that no one else asks specifically for him to prepare their beverages, or that the annoying litter of the leftover newspaper is gone.   
  
Wat doesn't understand what on earth happened, and whether it was he or Geoff who misread whatever it was that Geoff had asked of him, and Wat tells the girls to go home early – he'll close up for the afternoon – because he needs the time to think.  
  
He's counted the till and cleaned off all the equipment to its dull ruddy shine and put up all the chairs when the door rattles. Annoyed, Wat looks up, and finds Geoff standing outside, arms crossed over his chest.  
  
Stunned, Wat fumbles with the lock for a moment, and manages to get Geoff inside. The man is wearing a triumphant expression, and has a familiar gray-and-black print tucked under one arm, as he ducks between the door and Wat to get past him. "Fancy a cuppa?"  
  
Wat locks the door behind him, and turns to the counter. Geoff has pulled himself up onto it, and his long legs are swinging playfully. "I prefer tea," he says lamely.   
  
Geoff's laugh is something he hasn't really seen before, not up-close and just for him, all teeth and joy and shaking head and amused eyes. "Tea is fine, then." He looks over his shoulder, almost coyly, at the space between the till and the back counter. "Should I jump back there, or – "  
  
"No, no. No." The idea of an intruder in his designated territory is enough to throw Wat into action. He scuttles behind the counter and pulls two mugs out. "The machine's not warmed up," he explains to Geoff, knowing immediately that it'll be impossible to explain the hardware behind the working of the espresso machine – the hot water pressure necessary to pull a proper shot and the mechanics of the warming of the pipes.   
  
But Geoff waves him off, pulls an impossibly long leg up underneath him on the counter, and smiles again. "Tea is fine," he says, and sounds so sincere that Wat has no choice but to believe him.   
  
He makes two cups of Earl Gray, and he knows he's being nervous and fluttery but can't seem to do anything but nearly trip over himself. Geoff's hand wraps around his own when he takes the mug from him, and the knobbly sleeve of his cable-knit sweater brushes soft against Wat's hand, and he knows he's blushing and can't seem to stop.   
  
"Thank you," Geoff says graciously, and Wat knows he means more than just the tea.   
  
"You're welcome," Wat replies, hopelessly out of his depth. He speaks on one level, in what he wants and what he understands, and doesn't enjoy playing word games. Which is a bit ridiculous, considering the fact that he's having tea with a man who's addicted to the crossword. "What is this?" he blurts, and then grips his mug so hard he thinks it might shatter in his hands.  
  
"An apology," Geoff offers immediately, much to Wat's surprise, and swings his legs around to the other side of the counter so that they are face to face. He sets the mug down, untouched. "I hadn't realized."  
  
Wat's forehead wrinkles, and he scrubs a hand back and forth through his hair. "Hadn't realized what?"  
  
"How very large the potential to screw this up is," Geoff confesses, spreading his large hands. Then, decisively, he reaches up and pulls the coffee cup out of Wat's fingers. Wat watches it go, the smell of tea surrounding them in little eddies of steam. And Geoff is pulling him closer, one hand around each of Wat's wrists, until they're holding hands and close, very close, and Wat is between Geoff's spread legs on the counter.  
  
"Oh," Wat says, his face still carved into confusion.   
  
"Can I – " Geoff starts, one hand pulling up out of Wat's to hover by his cheek. Wat immediately feels the loss in that now he has no idea what to do with his empty hand. "I'd like to kiss you."  
  
All the air leaves Wat in a rush, and he ends up clamping his empty hand down on the edge of the counter. "Oh," he says, and thinks he might vomit. "Well. Yes."  
  
If Geoff is even a fraction as confused and nervous as Wat is, it doesn't show. He simply lets the hovering hand touch down on his cheek, and their faces are pulled together, and kissing the word becomes a thousand times more complex than kissing the action, because kissing Geoffrey Chaucer is as natural as breathing in and out.  
  
It's a soft, sweet, short kiss, and when Geoff eases them apart, Wat becomes aware of his own hand, how it's moved from the countertop to grip at the very top of Geoff's thigh, trying to pull them closer. Their foreheads tip together, and he stretches up to kiss Geoff again, and they spend a few lazy moments swapping gentle, exploratory kisses that taste like sugar and coffee and tea and the snow that's piled up outside.   
  


* * *

  
  
After the incident before, Geoff doesn't come back for a week, but has at least the good sense enough to tell Wat that it may be a while before they see one another again. Wat doesn't seem best pleased in the least, but lets it go.  
  
It's a Tuesday the next time Geoff goes to the café, and he doesn't even realize it until he sees the closed sign. He knocks anyway, shameful dirty hope in his heart, and Wat opens the door, startled, and then scowling.  
  
"It's been almost a week and a half – " he starts out, at the same time Geoff is saying "I know, I'm sorry – "   
  
There's an embarrassed silence for a moment, and Geoff knows distinctly that he has absolutely nothing to apologize for, and that makes him feel even worse, and he has no idea why. "Can I – " he starts, and Wat finishes by stepping aside for him and flushing for the both of them.  
  
Geoff ducks inside, shaking snow from his hair, and surveys the empty café. All the blinds are drawn, and the shaky winter sunlight is casting poor illumination anyway, and the inside of the café is shadowy and flat.   
  
"Where – " Wat starts, and then rubs at the back of his neck.  
  
"Writing," Geoff confesses. He'd known, after last week, after the lazy afternoon they'd spent trading stories and lives and kisses at the counter, that he'd have plenty to write about for the next few days. He hadn't thought it would last him so long, though. Until he woke up this morning, bleary and uncoordinated, and knew in his very blood that he had to see Wat again.  
  
Wat is moving behind the counter again, pulling out teacups, but Geoff doesn't even let him get that far before he's come behind him, circled his hips in his hands, and Wat needs reminding of why he shouldn't be going rigid with discomfort in the embrace. Geoff leaves kisses along his neck, up behind his ear and into his hair, and Wat melts in his grasp and turns, until they're clutching at one another. "Writing about what?" Wat asks, nosing at his neck.  
  
"Everything," Geoff says broadly, unable to narrow it beyond that. "You make me want to write."  
  
Wat makes a scoffing sound. "Ought to make you want to spend more time with – " He cuts himself off, and makes a displeased grumbling sound.  
  
Geoff, though, is laughing. "Ought to," he admits, and then he's kissing Wat again, full, deep kisses, and mumbling, "Missed you," into his mouth.  
  
Wat makes a surprised sound and swats at him, and Geoff backs off, looking surprised and innocent. He hopes. "How could you miss me? We've hardly even – "  
  
But that isn't true, and Geoff knows his face reads it. Wat looks down, and then to the side, anywhere but at Geoff's face, and it warms something in Geoff's chest and he groans at himself, at the sudden realization that he's well and truly gone for this random man who makes amazing coffee and tea that isn't half bad either, if one goes in for that sort of thing.   
  
"What?" Wat says, defensively, and backs against the counter.  
  
Geoff follows him, and presses against him, and that's all the explanation Wat needs really. His eyes widen, just the slightest, and Geoff gives him a sheepish smile and another kiss.  
  
"Oh," Wat breathes, realization and pleasure in one, and Geoff scootches him up onto the counter and has him kissed breathless before he breaks away again. "Not here."  
  
"Why not? God, please." Geoff trails little kisses down his cheek, over his jaw, nudging.   
  
"It's not hygienic." Wat's voice is perfectly reasonable, and it builds a little giddy laugh in Geoff's chest again.  
  
"For who? Us, or the counter?"  
  
Wat snorts and swats him, which is really far more endearing than it should be, and Geoff has the good grace to back away, hands still on Wat's hips as Wat slips off the counter. "Come home with me, then," Geoff says. And it's an awful, sudden, ridiculous, brilliant idea. "I'll make dinner. We can talk more."  
  
"I don't think – " Wat starts.  
  
"Please," Geoff says, blinking down at him.  
  
Wat's lips purse for a moment. "I have to open tomorrow."  
  
As though that were assent itself, Geoff beams. "Okay."  
  
"Okay?" Wat squints suspiciously at him.  
  
Geoff laughs, and kisses his forehead. "I'll help."

 

 

**Part Two: Cake in a Cup**

It takes a week before they finally make it to Geoff's flat. What had gone from a promise of dinner and a chat had turned into a walk through the park in the freezing cold, and then a long walk back, and scalding tea to put feeling back into Geoff's fingers. And then he'd sent himself home, promising not to disrupt Wat's life as much as he already was – and promising a raincheck to the man himself.   
  
The next afternoon, he calls it in – but it turns into dinner at a local Thai restaurant, and they stay talking so long that Geoff has to call a taxi home, because the Underground has stopped running.   
  
Events continued to transpire – a heavy snow that make it near impossible to travel, a bout of work for Geoff that glues him in front of his desk, a mysterious illness in Wat's family (which is rather extensive, by Geoff's estimate, and the fact that he's never heard a relative repeated yet in the many stories about the Fowlehurst clan). But by next Monday night, he has vowed to let nothing stop him. Even if that has to include the new inch of falling snow that is drifting quietly down onto the streets of London.   
  
The snow makes travel so difficult, in fact, that Wat is already locking up the door of the shop, stamping his feet to warm them on the sidewalk, and turning to attempt to find a cab when Geoff pulls up, out of breath despite the fact that Wat's the one on foot, and thinks he'll never get tired of seeing Wat's startled expression melt into an expression of consternation.  
  
"What's this, then?" Wat says to him, his voice carrying far in the blanket of white.   
  
Geoff takes a moment to pull down his scarf a bit, and pops his goggles onto his head. "It's a Vespa. Get on."  
  
Wat presses himself up against the window of the café, his brown corduroy pants collecting snowflakes in the rivets, and tugs his jacket further around himself. "Absolutely not."  
  
"Don't be a prat," Geoff says, and pulls off his helmet and tosses it to Wat. Wat catches it, but reluctantly, and holds it distant between two hands, as though afraid it might bite him. "Put it on, and we'll go."  
  
"Go where?" Wat immediately protests, but he's stepping a bit closer, his eyes flitting all over the scooter. It's a dull minty green in the midst of black slushy snow, and Geoff manages to look just a bit too big for it, with his massive legs, he knows. But still, it's his, and he adores it, and he bought it with the first check he ever got for selling a story, and it was the most frivolous investment he'd ever made and worth every penny.   
  
"I promised you dinner, didn't I?" Geoff tries out the grin that seems to be working best with Wat, so far, and the man caves and manages his way around the snow bank that separates the sidewalk from the street. Geoff plonks his goggles back on, and pulls his scarf up to hide the giddy thrill he knows is written all over his face as Wat climbs on behind him.  
  
They sit idle for a beat, before Geoff twists enough to catch the man through the tint of his goggles. "Hold on," he commands, scolding, and it comes out muffled.   
  
Wat's mouth pinches, but he worms his arms around Geoff's middle, and squeezes tight in the warm jacket.   
  
They drive off, and it's freezing, and it's not long before Geoff can feel Wat's ungloved hands burrowing closer, and the press of his cheek against his shoulder to stave off the driving wind.   
  
It makes Geoff warmer, even though the snow is thickening.  
  


* * *

  
  
The first thing Wat can see when he manages to pry his eyes all the way open – half frozen shut with tears so cold they feel hot on his cheeks, and snowflakes in his hair and the damn helmet held in his numb fingers – is a pile of books. Followed by another pile and another and another.   
  
"Do you even have furniture?" he asks Geoff, who laughs and shakes out their jackets to hang over the back of the closet door. There appears to be a sofa buried somewhere under a stack of ancient and crumbling volumes – the pages are marbled or gilted or a deep fiery red, or the covers are made of board or wood or, in some cases, wrapped in cloth. Some have titles he knows, and some are written in Latin and French and or are too worn to tell what they may've contained in the past, when they were properly cared for.   
  
"Are you asking if I've got a bed?" Geoff asks, but his voice has gone suddenly distant, and Wat has to crush the urge to explore and follows him through a narrow hallway that spills out into a cozy kitchen. A radiator hisses against one wall, and Geoff is easing himself down onto it in jerky increments.   
  
"Hot?" Wat guesses, and hovers a hand over it, eyes opening in surprise. The metal is burning, and he can't guess how Geoff can bear it, but it also feels excruciatingly excellent at such a close proximity.   
  
"My bottom's gone numb," Geoff confesses. "Can't feel a thing." He reaches up and unwinds the ridiculous scarf, and bit by bit his face comes free. His hair is sticking in all directions, and Wat reaches over to brush the snow out of it, and Geoff takes his hand and pulls him closer. The radiator kicks out heat, or Geoff does, he isn't sure.   
  
Wat watches him carefully, but Geoff does nothing more suspect than studying Wat's palm, pressing his own over it, and rubbing back and forth to try and warm up the fingertips. They're both cold, though, and it only goes so far. Geoff doesn't relinquish the hand as he stands up, but he does drop the scarf and grins own at Wat. "Hi," he says, his voice quiet and happy.  
  
Wat blinks. "Hi."  
  
"I didn't get to earlier." Geoff makes this sound perfectly reasonable, and drops a kiss onto Wat's mouth. Wat hadn't missed it at the time, but now that he's had it again, can't understand how he'd gone so long without. "And hello kisses are the most important."   
  
"Right," Wat says skeptically, but doesn't pull his hand away until a few moments have passed, and they set about the kitchen in a nice rhythm, to prepare the dinner that Geoff has promised.  
  


* * *

  
  
After dinner, they sit around the living room, full of food and warm and lazy. Geoff manages to clear enough space on the sofa to drape himself lengthways on his stomach, and Wat has delved into one pile of books, gasping happily when he finds an old childhood classic.   
  
In his hands, he holds a copy of  _Black Beauty_  so old that the pages cannot be bent as they are turned, or they will flake off in his fingers. He learns this the hard way, by nearly destroying the first page he comes to, and cries out in dismay as the paper goes to ash in his fingers.  
  
Geoff has his head on one folded arm, and is watching him with a happy smile. He waves his fingers in dismissal as Wat looks up to him, horrorstruck. "Don't worry about it."  
  
"Don't  _worry_  about – " And then Wat has to stop, gaping down at the pages. He closes the book, his mouth pulling flat, as though shutting the cover will make it as though he never opened it in the first place.   
  
"No, really," Geoff tells him. "It isn't worth much. It's just an old copy. The back binding's broken and it's missing about twenty pages halfway through. And I've flaked off more pages than you'd ever dream of seeing in a lifetime."   
  
Still frowning and berating himself, Wat eases the cover open again, and, indeed, it does appear that there are several sloped and crumbled pages in the volume. The binding is in tatters and pulls away from the crease. Still, Wat closes it and sets it gently aside, smoothing one reverent hand over the cover. "I'm sorry," he mutters, feeling awful.   
  
Geoff props himself up far enough to ruffle a hand through Wat's hair, a gesture that makes Wat look sharply at him – not startled, or confused, but some combination of the two. "I told you," Geoff says carelessly. "It doesn't matter. But if you ruin any of those – " he pulls the hand out of Wat's hair and gestures to a glass cabinet, and then drops it to the ground – "I'll have to take you to court."  
  
Just the mention of the cabinet puts horrific scenarios into Wat's head, about all the ways he could inadvertently ruin it or set fire to it or drench it in water. He inches a bit closer to Geoff, away from the cabinet. "What's in there?"  
  
"First edition prints," Geoff answers him, and reaches out to tug him a bit closer. Wat settles with his back against the sofa, and Geoff drapes his arm down Wat's front, pooling at Wat's side. It feels…odd, but not uncomfortable, and they hold hands and watch the bookcase. Wat thinks it might come alive. "There's a bible from 1682 on the bottom shelf. And my great great grandfather's collection of poetry. That's the black sooty one in the plastic bag."   
  
Wat makes what he hopes is an appreciative noise. It's amazing, the age of the books, but he really can't deal with the significance of it all. They're all old, and it's amazing they exist at all, but beyond that, he isn't sure. He doesn't know if he ought to now Geoffrey's ancestors by name, or that if a bible from the 1600s is more historically important than one from before or after. "Do you have a favorite?"  
  
Geoff makes a clucking noise and turns a bit onto his side, so that he's curled in a crooked C shape on the sofa, a half-circle around Wat. Their heads are close, and Geoff's eyes are tired. "That's like trying to choose a favorite leaf off of a tree."   
  
Wat snorts. "You can have a favorite sort though, can't you?" He always had. The adventure stories with pirates and dragons and unicorns and flying things that had no business flying at all.   
  
"Of course you can," Geoff agreed soothingly. "I just…don't." He gave a helpless little shrug. "I like all of it."  
  
It isn't hard to understand, given that, when Wat looks around the living room, all he can see are the books. He's made out what might be another chair in the corner, and there's a desk scattered in paper and notes and dirty dishes and pens and photographs and maps and one odd, dog-eared, massive dictionary. But beyond that, there is no concession to technology save the electric light. There is nothing but the books.   
  
It's in his scan of the room that he notices the only other technological device – a clock – and realizes the hour. "I should call a cab," he says, his hand giving Geoff's arm a squeeze, and tries to lift if off.   
  
Geoff slides his embrace away with a quick drift to the back of Wat's hair, but he's looking thoughtful as Wat twists to look at him for his agreement.   
  
"What," Wat starts, starting to learn that the expression means embarrassing things. He isn't disappointed.  
  
Geoff swallows, a bit harshly, and pulls his hand all the way up to his chin. It makes him look strangely childlike, and Wat resists the urge to brush his hair out of his face. "You could stay?"  
  
Wat blinks, and closes his mouth.  
  
"Just to sleep," Geoff tells him. "More, if you like, but I – I make breakfast, too."  
  
Wat doesn't say anything, but something in his stomach clenches hard and squirms, amazingly uncomfortable. He opens his mouth to protest, but Geoff is sitting up, propping up onto elbows to look him in the eye. "It's just – " he says, cutting off Wat's words before they can even come out. "I keep thinking about what it would be like to wake up next to you." His face is strong and defiant, and expectant.  
  
Wat can't say much. "Oh," he settles on.  
  
"Please," Geoff says, and somehow it isn't begging, it's graceful, and when he stands up, Wat goes with him, and when he goes into the bedroom, things somehow keep from becoming awkward. Geoff loans him shorts and a shirt to sleep in, and the bed is well big enough for two, and they're both stuffed with good food and something radiator-hot is burning at the back of Wat's neck and it makes him drowsy and happy. They curl together under the covers, facing one another, just touching – fingers brushing, knees near knees, and the last things he remembers seeing are Geoff's blue blue eyes reflecting the cool winter moonlight.  
  


* * *

  
  
When Geoff wakes in the morning, the snow has stopped, and the sun is diamond bright through the window that he faces. He isn't awake more than a half second before his eyes find Wat, and a cool, sharp wash of happiness guts him. Wat is burrowed close, one arm hugging a pillow, curled on his side.   
  
Geoff knows he's promised, implicitly, to be polite in this bed. But with the comfort of tiredness gone, he is fully aware of being in bed with a man he finds entirely too attractive, but outside and in. He blinks, and swallows, tasting stale garlic and something else more foul, and slips out of bed to rinse out his mouth.  
  
When he comes back, moderately satisfied, Wat stirs and rumbles and reaches for him. He ends up in a startlingly sweet embrace despite having told himself not to touch, and it's in the comfort of Wat's head on his shoulder that he has the opportunity to watch Wat come awake.  
  
"Morning," Geoff tells hm.  
  
"Already?" Wat grumbles against his chest, and the word sends a little thrill through Geoff's skin. He reaches up to pet Wat's hair, and the man's eyes drop closed again. "Back t'sleep. Don't have to go in today."  
  
A Tuesday, and the café will be closed, and Geoff knows there is definitely something wrong with him that he knows that schedule at all.   
  
They lounge for another hour or so before Wat's stomach makes itself known – he hopes he has enough eggs in the house for omelets, and he had no idea before how much a man who runs a restaurant can eat. He could run to the market, he knows, but that would mean cold and snow and leaving Wat in his flat, and worrying that if he took too long Wat would talk himself out of staying and he'd come back with oranges but no Wat.   
  
It's still another bit of time before Geoff finally shifts a bit, and Wat murmurs – not an unhappy sound – and both of them work themselves toward waking. "Sleep well?" Geoff asks quietly, and doesn't know why he feels nervous about the whole thing, but does.  
  
"Mmn," Wat confirms, stretching and flexing and making little sleepy sounds, fingers clenching and unclenching in Geoff's shirt. "You've even got books in here." There was a large stack next to the bed, and on the floor, and by the bathroom door, and scattered in an odd flood near the closet.   
  
"Quite a few," Geoff says happily, and pulls a thin volume off of one stack next to the bed. It is all black, and stamped with gold lettering. "Here."  
  
Wat blinks, and pushs himself up onto his elbows. "What do you mean, 'here'?"  
  
Geoff gestures at him with the book, and ends up setting it on his own chest. Wat picks it up from there, and turns it over. "Take it. Read it."  
  
"I'm not taking anything," Wat says hastily, reading the title. "Lovecraft? Who - ?"  
  
"Horror," Geoff tells him. "You'll like it. It's gruesome."   
  
"I like gruesome things, do I?" Wat sets the book down on his other side, and hooks a hand onto Geoff's shoulder and pulls up to kiss him. "I like you."  
  
It is supposed to come out taunting. They both know this. Except the way they both go still, and look at one another, the immediate defensiveness in Wat's face, and the rare moment of shock written in Geoff's expression, and they both know that Wat's said something he hadn't meant to. It's all Geoff can do to swallow and keep his expression neutral.  
  
"I like you, too," he tells Wat, his voice a humiliatingly soft whisper, as if it isn't already patently obvious how much he enjoys the man's company. As if they aren't tangled up in Geoff's bed in the crisp January sunlight, keeping one another warm. As if he isn't loaning out his favorite books on a whim.   
  
They kiss again, another series of the sweet embraces that Geoff is getting far too accustomed to, and when Wat lets him go, they are both smiling. Goofy, soft smiles, and Wat rolls back, after a moment, and fetches the book. "I'll have to come back and give it to you."   
  
"You'd better had," Geoff tells him, mock alarm, and works up enough energy to swing his legs over the side of the bed. "Or I'm not making eggs."  
  
Wat perks at the mention of food. "Eggs? And what else?"   
  
Geoff turns from where he's rummaged up a pair of loose cottony drawstring pants, and grins at him. "And anything else you'd like, I should think."  
  
For breakfast, Wat has half a dozen eggs and a handful of grapes. Geoff has a cup of coffee, doused with cream and sugar, much to Wat's disgust, and a bowl of oatmeal. They share cherries, and compare who has the cleaner pits. Wat helps with the dishes, and then with the crossword.  
  
For lunch, they have each other.  
  


 

**Part Three: Crema**

Geoff doesn't know what to expect when he hears the door buzz – he isn't expecting anyone, and it's so late in the day that it's nearly indecent. Not that he's anywhere close to sleeping, not at 9 p.m. on a weekend, but most respectable people his age are asleep by now. He wonders, with a twist in his chest, if it's Wat, come unannounced – but Wat doesn't do that, not ever, only comes over if he's had an invitation, never even invites himself. Geoff's doing what he can to change that, of course, but it's taking some time.   
  
He's surprised, then, when he pokes the button on the security phone and sees a girl staring up at him, her face distorted by the curve of the lens, and watches her bounce from foot to foot anxiously. He picks up the phone. "Yes?" His voice is cautious, and he watches her jump when she hears it.  
  
"I'm – is this Geoffrey Chaucer, sir?" She speaks louder than she needs to, as most people do when they use the security phones.   
  
"Yes," he says, his voice still wary, but a different sort now. He shifts his stance, rather defensively, and watches as she leans closer to the grated speaker in the wall.   
  
"I'm one of – " She looks frustrated, as though she dislikes speaking to the wall instead of a real person. Geoff feels a tinge of pity for her – he doesn't like the contraptions much either, but with security as it is, he can't afford not to. "I'm Wat's sister – Beatrice. And he's sent me to find you. He's gone ill."  
  
Geoff blinks, nearly sets the phone down, and then grabs it up again. "I'll be right down," he says in a rush, and then sprints for his coat.  
  


* * *

  
  
Wat doesn't think it's actually possible to feel worse than he does. He knows that the café's been shut down properly, thank god, he managed to make it through until the end of the business day. But then he'd nearly collapsed on the sidewalk, and Cecily had had to get him home safely, and refused to leave until she'd sent one of the girls to fetch something for his illness. Tea, he assumes. Tea with honey, he hopes, thinks it might make his throat feel better. Even tea without honey would be good at this point, it might warm him up a bit – he can't seem to get warm, and can't seem to find the energy to draw a bath.   
  
It makes his whole body ache, the coldness, like something has crept into his bones and won't leave. He tugs the quilt up to his nose, hunches his shoulders, and shivers. Blast March weather, the rain and freezing sleep and grey skies driving him to this.   
  
The door opens, and it's only then that he realizes his eyes have slipped closed. Perhaps they'll let him sleep, if they think he's resting, but the careful, cautious tread across the room doesn't sound anything like the confident footsteps of his family. He cracks an eye, and Geoff freezes, hovers halfway between the door and the bed, and Wat groans.  
  
He closes his eye again, and that, somehow, allows Geoff to complete the journey. He props himself on the side of Wat's bed and sets down the tray he's carrying on the table, and shucks out of his coat – a lovely extravagant thing lined with fur, a coat that Wat can't believe any man can actually get away with wearing in this day and age – and puts his hand on Wat's cheek, the backs of his fingers testing for fever, and it's so warm that it pulls a hideously needy noise from Wat's throat.  
  
"You poor dear," Geoff says, and Wat can't believe there isn't even a hint of mocking in it. Geoff leans back, then, and pulls his hand away, and Wat opens his eyes to see why. He's toeing off his shoes, of all things, and then tucks his legs up underneath his body and urges Wat onto his back.   
  
"I've brought the Vanilla Red," Geoff says, when Wat says nothing, and pulls a hot cup off of the tray.   
  
"Why?" Wat croaks, and it hurts, and he doesn't know if he means why is Geoff there, or why the Vanilla Red, when Earl Gray is perfectly acceptable any day of the week.  
  
"Because it's my best tea, and you're sick," Geoff says, as if that settles the matter. He manages to get Wat high enough that sipping the tea will probably be safe, and they test the theory – it's proved sound when Wat doesn't scald himself. "And your sister came to fetch me. She said you asked for me. Beatrice," he added, forestalling the question.   
  
"Didn't," Wat says, sounding horrified and knowing it. He didn't ask for Geoff, surely he didn't. He couldn't have said anything. The fever isn't that bad. He didn't think, anyway. Maybe he was wrong. Either way, Geoff shouldn't be here. Bound to get them both sick, this way, by the end of it.  
  
Geoff shushes him and they get through the cup of tea – it's warmed Wat a bit, but not as much as the side of him that's pressed up against Geoff's legs, or the stripe of belly that's covered by Geoff's arm on top of the covers. "I'm glad she did," he says, and it takes Wat a long, long time to figure out what it is he's talking about. And by the time he manages it, he's nearly fallen asleep.  
  


* * *

  
  
The next morning, Geoff wakes up wrapped around Wat, under the covers, completely dressed. He's burning up, clutching Wat this hard, but Wat seems to finally be sleeping naturally – not the fitful doze he'd been in when Geoff had broken down, unable to watch the helpless shudders any longer, and crawled under the covers to hold him. He eases his grip a bit and tests Wat's temperature with the back of his hand – much closer to normal, he thought.  
  
The touch wakes Wat, though, who gazes at him blearily. "Oh, Lord," he croaks, and averts his eyes. Geoff has some idea that he'd be covering his face with his hands, if he could, but he's too tired to bother. "Slept here?"  
  
"Of course I slept here," Geoff said soothingly, petting the sweaty hair off of Wat's face, and then soothing strokes down the middle of his chest. "You needed rest, and you were shaking fit to snap. Your fever's broken, by the way. How's your throat?"  
  
He watches Wat try to swallow, and grimace, and make a broken little "ow" sound, and it makes his heart hurt.   
  
"No talking for you today," he declares, and presses a gentle, so gentle, kiss to Wat's throat, just over his Adam's apple. "I'll do the talking for the both of us."  
  
Wat makes a little whimpering sound, and smacks him under the covers, but Geoff only grins. "Betrayed," Wat croaks. "By my own family."  
  
"Your sisters are brilliant," Geoff corrects him, long fingers petting down his cheek and over his eyes, touching and cataloguing and making sure nothing is broken or unfixable. "They were right to get me," he says matter-of-factly. "I can take care of you."  
  
"Don't need you," Wat grumps immediately.  
  
"Well, I need you," he counters, and reaches across Wat's chest for something on the side table and the tray so that he won't have to see Wat's face. "And I need you not sick." He rushes to fill the awkward void that he knows would be there even if Wat were in full capacity of speaking on his own. He dips his finger in something on the tray, pulls back, and settles next to Wat again. He taps the man's bottom lip with the finger, and commands, "Open up."  
  
Wat obeys, and Geoff slides his finger inside, and tries not to think about the hot, wet, sucking press of tongue against his skin, or the surprised, deep groan of pleasure in Wat's chest. There's time for that later, much later, when Wat isn't hurting or sick and he doesn't have half a dozen girls prowling in the hallway.   
  
"Mr?" Wat manages around the finger, and Geoff pull it out and leans over him again, going back for more.   
  
"Mmhm," Geoff replies, and nudges his mouth again. Wat opens readily this time, and sucks the honey from his finger carefully.  
  
"Helps," he manages after he's finished, and doesn't sound so horrible.   
  
"Good," Geoff decides, and wipes his fingers on a corner of the sheet, and drops a kiss to the side of Wat's throat. If he can help it, he's going to come out of this without getting equally sick. "Now sleep more, and when you wake up, we'll see about putting some food in you."  
  
Wat makes a complaining sound, but snuggles against his chest again, and Geoff pulls him close so that he can stroke his back and his hair at the same time, and lets Wat sleep. He spends the time composing poetry in his head, about the fall of sunlight against the pale yellow wall, and the timing of Wat's breathing against his chest. But mostly, he's happy just to let Wat sleep, and when Beatrice comes to check on them a few hours later, she's happy to find them both asleep, and comfortable, in one another's arms.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A brief epilogue - several years past Chapter 1.

It's one of the first warm days of spring, and Wat is almost reluctant to close the café. People seem equally reluctant to leave. The birds are out, and crumbs are being scattered along the sidewalk by the wrought iron tables and chairs, and he should be upset because it's going to mean more bird shit than usual but he just can't care, it's too nice. It's just warm enough that he can wrestle out of his sweater, and the sun feels warm on his arms, makes him see bright red behind his eyes when he turns his face up toward the sunset.  
  
Nevertheless, he has a home to get back to, and there's no sense in keeping the girls. So they wait an extra half an hour before they shoo everyone out, and then get to work dragging the tables and chairs inside, and bussing everything, and dishes, and backflushing the espresso machine, and making sure everything's ready for tomorrow. Standard prep work. Wat lingers, and he isn't sure why.  
  
Until Geoff pulls up in a car.   
  
And not just any car. Roland's car. Roland's hideous, imported from America, beast of a corvette from the 1970s, with fins and chrome and white upholstery and an obnoxious horn that plays La Cucaracha, and, god help them all, it's big enough to  _swim_  in. Wat has never before so longed for the Vespa.   
  
Geoff jumps over the door without even opening it to get out of the car, and Wat groans.  
  
It makes Beatrice look up. She grins. Geoff resists the urge to hide his face in his hands.  
  
"Darling!" Geoff announces, and no matter how many times he says it, it still makes Wat turn pink. Which, Wat supposes, is probably why he does it. "It's quitting time, I do believe, get your jacket."   
  
It's easy enough to switch directly into a scowl. "I'm not done here yet."  
  
"He's done," Alice says, wringing her hands in a towel. "We'll finish closing."  
  
Geoff beams at her, and kisses Beatrice on the cheek as she swishes by with a rack full of dirty dishes. She throws a smile over her shoulder for him. "Come on," he says, and holds out his hand.   
  
Wat grumbles, but Alice is already fetching his jacket and shoving him toward the door. It's warm enough that he doesn't need it, and he touches Geoff's hand in recognition, but doesn't take it.   
  
Geoff doesn't seem to mind, and holds the door open, leaning his long frame against it and grinning down at Wat as Wat passes through. The expression is suspicious, and makes him wary.   
  
"What the hell is this?" he asks, and points at the car.  
  
"That, Wat, is a car." He holds open the passenger side of the convertible, and Wat can see blankets piled up in the back, and a picnic basket. "We're going for dinner. Come on. Get in." He nods with his head, and grins winningly.   
  
Wat glances back in through the gleaming windows of the café, his sight nearly obstructed by the reflection of the sunset on the glass. The girls seem to have things under control. Really, he can leave. But Geoff is so very clearly up to something, he can't help but be suspicious.   
  
He plunges in anyway, though, as he always does, smacking Geoff in the ribs on his way into the car for being so ridiculously chivalrous. Geoff doesn't mind, just smiles again, and the car rumbles noisily under them.   
  


* * *

  
  
The drive is long enough that – Geoff hopes – it lulls Wat into a sort of false sense of security. Not that he really needs to be lulled, but the fun in a surprise is making it a little odd, and a little out of the blue, so really, that's the point. He takes them far out of the city, and by the time they're nearing their destination, the sun is well down and the moon is on its way up.  
  
They'd chatted for a bit, about the beauty of the day and the book that Geoff was working on – his second, financed by the success of the first – and possible plans to expand the café, because there didn't seem to be enough seating on the busy days, like today. But after a short span of time, Wat and dozed off, and Geoff had turned down the radio to let him sleep. It was understandable, really, considering how early Wat insisted on opening the café. A nap certainly wouldn't hurt the proceedings for the evening, either.  
  
But when the pavement switched from proper road to gravel, Wat was awake like a shot. "Where – " he started, and rubbed at his eyes in the cool night air.   
  
"It's Edward's lake," Geoff said, his voice quiet as they passed under a canopy of trees toward the shore.   
  
"What?" Wat demanded. "He owns a  _lake_?"  
  
"I think he adopted it," Geoff admitted. "Anyway, it's a park now. But it hasn't opened for the season yet, so I don't think there will be too many other people around." They reach the first bend in the road, which is set up with picnic tables and outlined spots for cars to park, over an outcropping that leads down to a platform for fishermen. The proper swimming beach is another minute or two down the path, but Geoff pulls off here and puts the car in park.  
  
"What on earth?" Wat attempts, looking out over the blackness of the water and the thin slice of moon that's rising. "Why?" He turns so he can see Geoff, and his eyes are muted in the darkness, but Geoff knows how to read them in any light.   
  
"I've always wanted to," he says, and leans over the broad bench seat to tip his fingers under Wat's jaw and draw him into a kiss.   
  
It's been too long since this morning, his mouth tells him, and his brain isn't protesting. Too long without kisses, and it's usually what drives him down to go write in the café, when he knows the flow of customers will be quiet enough that he can work.   
  
Wat's fingers just brush the hollow of his throat, palm in the middle of his chest, and they ease apart. Wat's squinting at him, trying to see him better in the dimness. "You've always wanted to go parking?"  
  
Geoff laughs, and steals another kiss. "Well, yes. But no. Come on, I'm starving." He scrambles over the back seat, and sees Wat pull the keys out of the ignition out of the corner of his eye. He tosses the blankets into Wat's lap. "Go spread those out somewhere?"  
  
Wat harrumphs slightly, but the door opens and closes, and Geoff climbs out a few moments later.   
  
He helps Wat spread the blankets, enough of them on top of each other to keep the grass from poking through, or to keep the blankets from bunching around awkwardly, before he toes off his shoes and settles, cross legged, in the middle. Wat watches him suspiciously for a moment more, as he pulls out glasses and wine and various packages from the picnic basket, and then settles to appropriate the bottle and the corkscrew.   
  
"It's not much," Geoff says, and it really isn't. "Just simple picnic food."   
  
"Don't care," Wat says. "I'm famished."  
  
Geoff glares at him as he pulls the lid off of a box of strawberries. "Did you eat lunch?"  
  
Wat rolls his eyes. "Of course I ate lunch." Which may or may not be a lie. Wat tends to forget to eat when there are so many customers, which is really saying something. Either way, it's so late in the night now that Geoff really is voracious, and he's glad he packed as much as he did, to account for Wat's appetite.   
  
There's a whole roast chicken, which Wat starts pulling apart with his fingers as soon as Geoff unveils it. Another, smaller package of roasted diced potatoes from the oven, and the smell of rosemary lures Wat away from the chicken only long enough to investigate. There's carrots, which came from Christiana's garden, and he eats a whole one as he unpacks the rest. A loaf of French bread, a hunk of soft Swiss cheese, a trio of whole pears.   
  
Wat moans happily at the spread, and Geoff collapses on his side to help him devour it.   
  
Wat licks at his fingers when he's done with the chicken, and Geoff forgoes filling his wine glass and starts to drink straight from the bottle. Which Wat smacks at him for, but it isn't a particularly good bottle of wine, just decent, and passable, and he doesn't care.   
  
"So," Wat says after some time, grazing through the potatoes.   
  
"Mmhm," Geoff says, and props himself back on one arm. "Oh, the stars are starting to come out." And they are, and this far away from the city lights, it's gorgeous. He's lucky he picked a clear day.   
  
Wat huffs and pulls the wine bottle out of his hand, refilling his own glass. "What was it, then? That you always wanted to do?" He stretches his feet out in front of him, the socked-toes that Geoff managed to coax him down to wiggling slightly.   
  
Geoff takes the opportunity to shift, and twists around to lay perpendicular to Wat, his head resting on Wat's thigh. Fingers curl into his hair immediately, stroking at the wild strands. He needs a haircut, really, but he hasn't been thinking about it lately. "Nothing. This. It's nice."  
  
Wat blinks down at him. Geoff pulls the carton of strawberries onto his stomach, and offers one up for Wat. He takes it out of Geoff's fingers, and examines it first, like he's never seen one before, and only then eats it. "You're lying," he says after a moment.   
  
"Maybe." Geoff can't help but laugh.   
  
"It's not parking, and it's not that," Wat muses, considering. "Then what is it?"  
  
"It can be parking," Geoff offers, and his fingers sneak into the inseam of Wat's trousers.   
  
Wat smacks his hand. "Behave." He pries Geoff's fingers gently out of his crotch, and wraps them with his own. "Am I going to have to hit you?"  
  
"You do that enough already," Geoff reminds him, and pulls their twined fingers over so he can kiss them. Wat frowns down at him.  
  
"Tell me," he demands.   
  
Geoff exhales against Wat's knuckles, measuring his chances of escaping this altogether. It's more than futile, he knows, and he'd planned on saying something eventually, really he had. But in his head, it had been more suave than this, less about the chill-turned-cold air on his skin and the way his toes are sort of numb, and the odd flick of insects against them in the middle of the night. And more about them, and Wat, and…   
  
Wat pinches him, and he yelps, and sits up, nearly toppling the strawberries, rubbing at his side.   
  
"You've got that look," Wat says, warningly. "I know that look."  
  
"Ow," Geoff grouses, and pulls his knees up to rest his forearms on them. "You try and do something nice, see where it gets you?"  
  
"Same place it always does," Wat reminds him, and scoots around a little so his knees are sideways against Geoff's back, and Geoff's shoulder is against his chest. "Tell me," he demands again.  
  
Geoff turns a little into the not-embrace, brushes his nose up against Wat's cheek. There's no perfect moment. There's just this, and them, and it's good like this. It's nice. And if there's Wat, and nice, that's all he needs to make anything perfect. "Happy anniversary," he murmurs against Wat's skin.  
  
Wat jolts his head back, and meets Geoff's eyes. "What?"  
  
Geoff can't help the little flicker of smile at the corner of his mouth. He really can't, and he isn't going to try. "Five years."  
  
Wat gapes. Prettily. Geoff runs his thumb over the point of his jaw, near Wat's ear, and urges his mouth closed, so he can kiss it. Wat lets him, before he speaks. "Five – ?"  
  
"Mm," Geoff sighs, and kisses him again. "Years."   
  
"Since when" Wat says, suddenly. "It was January – "  
  
"I know," Geoff interrupts him, and a surge of ridiculous warmth spills over in his stomach at Wat even considering the month of their first having met. "Do you remember when I went to France for that conference and couldn't call for a week, and you thought I'd gone and run off with some other woman to raise babies and settle down?"  
  
Wat's scowl is deepening by the second. "Yes."  
  
Geoff raises his hand and smoothes it over Wat's temple, into his hair. "We'd only really started… not dating, I mean, but seeing each other regularly. So I suppose it was understandable that you'd worry. Since you're bloody insane, and seem to have some kind of mental block against how crazy I am about you."   
  
"Shut up," Wat growls, but Geoff nips his mouth.   
  
"You insisted," he says, "so now you listen. You remember how Will tried to convince you to let it go, if I'd left? And you said that you – "  
  
" – that I wasn't going to let go of a sodding thing, until you came home, so I could beat the stuffing out of you if you'd gone and run around on me, yes, I remember quite well," Wat snaps. "You weren't supposed to hear about that."  
  
Geoff laughs. "Jocelyn's a bit of a gossip." He squints one eye, smiling. "Sorry. She told me a few weeks after I got back, and had suffered your wrath successfully. That's the day I asked you to move in." What he'd said, actually, was that he'd been thinking about getting new bookshelves, and when Wat had asked him why, he'd simply said that there wasn't enough room for Wat's books along with his own, and clearly that needed fixing. "Five years ago."  
  
"Will swore he wouldn't say anything to anyone," Wat protests. "He  _swore_."   
  
"I'm fairly glad he did," Geoff says, like it's an admission and not the absolute truth. "It would've been a bit of a hassle otherwise, getting to wake up with you every morning."   
  
Something about that makes Wat melt a little, just a little, but that's all that Geoff needs. He twists around fully, disturbing his empty wine glass, and Wat meets the kiss enthusiastically, sighing against his mouth, a word that he doesn't quite catch. His name, or something better.  
  


* * *

  
  
Curled in the back of the car, they can still see the ridiculously bright stars. Geoff has packed away the remains of the dinner into the trunk, and the piles of blankets are now warming his ice blocks of feet. Wat has his hands wrapped around them, rubbing slowly, trying to renew the circulation. Geoff's sprawled flat on his back, arms behind his head, staring up at the sky. It's a comfortable silence, the sort Wat loves, where he knows Geoff isn't thinking in overtime and things are lazy and sweet between them.   
  
Geoff slides his feet off of Wat's lap, and reaches for his fingers, tugging him down. They both fit on the wide seat, just barely, and Geoff curls to face him and covers him with the blankets he's already got draped over himself. Wat makes a surprised noise at the sudden embrace, Geoff's arms pulling him in, but he doesn't resist it. He slings his own arms around Geoff's middle, and they're entirely tangled together, Geoff's mouth near his ear.   
  
"It's late," Geoff says, and his fingers are working in the folds of the blankets, like he's looking for something.   
  
"Mm," Wat agrees, looking at the shadows in the surface of the moon. Craters, so far away.   
  
Geoff comes up with what he was searching for – a slightly bent chocolate bar, which he unpeels on Wat's chest and breaks apart. He offers a piece first, and this time Wat does eat straight from his fingers, the brush of skin against his mouth softer than Geoff's lightest kisses.   
  
"We should drive back," Geoff says, and sounds like he's gauging the drive time, and his own tiredness, and Wat's.   
  
Wat makes another sound of agreement, picking through the bits of chocolate on the foil, and finds a piece to feed to Geoff. He takes it, smiling. "We could stay," Wat murmurs.  
  
Geoff meets his eyes, slightly started, but mostly amused. "Really," he says. "Could we." Not questions, but sarcasm.   
  
Wat pinches him, and steals the next bite of chocolate for himself as retribution. It's very good, and tastes slightly bitter. He makes a mental note to check the wrapper tomorrow. For now, though, he reaches for Geoff, shifts his legs, gropes him slow through his trousers. "Really," he says, pitching his voice dark.   
  
He watches as Geoff's eyes change under his touch, and it's merely a matter of settling the chocolate on the floor before Geoff's on top of him fully, blankets and hands everywhere, and clothing falling away. They act like they're starved for it, like they've never had this, like Wat doesn't remember how Geoff's skin felt last night, or the morning before that, or any of the times in between. He wonders, vaguely, as Geoff's mouth descends on him, if he'll ever get used to this, to being touched or looked at like this.   
  
He's sure he will, but more and more, he knows that's a lie.   
  
It's tender and slow that night, gasps like rich butter in the cool air, the heat of Geoff's breath against his throat, the litheness of his form against Wat's, the sweet slide home into Geoff's body, the sharp clench of arousal as it takes them both. They rock and curl together, exhausted, sated, and cling.   
  
It's good like this.  
  
In the morning, Geoff kisses him awake. They're cramped and awkward, wincing in the back seat, and the sun his warm on his neck as Geoff peels back the blankets and exposes him to the morning, to his mouth. Wat stares up at the sky, dazed from pleasure and sleep, and it isn't until midmorning that they right themselves, and sort out their clothing, and climb, reluctantly, into the front of the car.   
  
Geoff drives, since Wat doesn't know the way, and he spends the ride far over on Geoff's side of the car, arm wrapped over his shoulder, as the landscape rumbles by.  
  
It doesn't take much convincing to keep Wat home from the café for the day, aided by the message that Alice has opened for the morning and they've got Jonothan coming in, a rarity, but a welcome one from the look on Geoff's face when they listen. He slips off for a shower, and leaves Wat in the kitchen, sorting over the café's ledger, and his own scheduling book.   
  
He hesitates, but only for a moment, before pulling out next year's calendar and flipping to April. And even though they've never celebrated before, for five long years before this one, he sees no reason why a little energy can't be invested in optimism.   
  
Wat circles the date in red, bites his lip to keep down the smile, and caps the pen.


End file.
